I wrote this a week ago in a spell of a few minutes trying to capture the sense of wanderlust and nostalgia that sometimes hits you when you're most unaware.
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Elijah hadn't thought about it in a long time. He used to hate the idea of going into long bouts when he would not even think of Sirion and Town - but now as he awoke from his forgetfulness, he realized it really had been a long time since he had last thought about them.
He sat down at his writing table, but like vapour, the thoughts and memory of his home vanished. It flickered now and then, but the silence in his room, the rhythm of his routine and the drone in his head drowned them out. Even the memory of five minutes ago slithered away like an insensitive snake regardless of the song of the charmer - regardless of him trying his best to hold it at bay.
He missed the refuge so much. But that refuge felt now like a lost dream. A lost dream lost to void. Slippery dreams like slippery eels that you get a hold of for a split second and then are gone in another split second.
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Maybe in a couple of year's time, I will still travel to a hill town and put down for a few months to finish my book about SIrion and Elijah Emory. The town shimmering in the Himalayan afternoon sun, clamouring of life. And souls brought together there to live, to breath the sepia air, to resurrect past demons, to drown in love, to hear the pines brushing in the moonlight..